The John Parable
by derpmano
Summary: After a long night at the office, John wakes up to realize he is the only person in the universe. There's an unseen force that's out to get him- or is it trying to help him? Stanley!AU
1. Birth

John woke up, the pleasant light of his office lamp positioned over his face. His eyes fluttered open to greet it, hazed from a dreamless sleep. His face was pressed against the keyboard yet again. He often fell asleep on the job, since he was perpetually able to get his work done early.

He sat up with a soft groan, shaking his head to rid himself of the last traces of sleep. His face was clammy from hours of breathing on himself. He rubbed his pale cheek with the back of his hand, glancing at the computer before him.

The muffled sound of scuffing shoes, clattering keyboards and fax machines greeted him from just outside his door. He was lucky he had an office to himself, or he would never be able to get away with his daily hour-long naps.

He continued to stretch and yawn and rub his eyes, but what really woke him up was the stifled voice of his boss, barking from the other room. His eyes flew open and shot back to the computer screen, fingers taking place over the warmed keyboard.

John had to finish his quota for the day if he ever wanted his boss to believe he deserved this room all to himself. The man had already threatened to expand this room into the closet space next door to make way for new employees. His manager told him that the boss has no need for lazy college graduates who do nothing but sleep and eat in the office building. John didn't say it at the time, but felt the urge to add that not only did he sleep and eat, but he worked a little, too. Like, more than anyone in the entire twelve story building. Even though his superiors were tough, the job was infinitely easy, and there was nothing like an easy job to round up dough after senior year.

He tapped the enter key, booting up the program he worked with every day.

The computer started up with the program he faced every day. The screen first harnessed a faint glow, the desk lamp reflecting its comparatively bright light off the screen. John squinted, the barrage of light stinging his eyes after so long a nap. He lifted up his glasses and rubbed them again, letting the black frames slip down his nose when he was done.

The familiar rows of binary began sprinting across the screen. John waited with the slightest impatience for it to catch up to his most previous work. The rows kept typing and typing themselves until finally, the last letter halted the conga line of numerals. It flashed repeatedly, beckoning him to work.

He laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles to prepare for what was to come. Once he started, the system wouldn't stop for anything, even if he messed up. This is why they hired John. The system they need help working was a fast paced typing program that decoded orders coming in from other companies, and John was the fast fingered fiend they recruited at College Day three months ago. His speed was one hundred-fifty words per minute, and the company manager was astounded when he witnessed him blow away entire pages while typing up his final in the campus library. He'd practically hired him on the spot. Then, he landed this job. Woe was him. He'd always wanted to be an accountant, just like his dad, but he supposed typing random pages of gibberish was a good dough reeling pastime until he got a real job.

John took a deep breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and began to type. The thing was with this task, was that he was supposed to hit every key on the keyboard that lit up with a green light. That means whenever and however long it lights up. John's fingertips fly over the board, tapping several keys at once, utter gibberish appearing before him at lightning speed.

HBddc./: was what he typed, and he didn't question it, either. Every time a key lit up on the keyboard, he pressed it. The flashes of light sped up and slowed down. They blinked from every corner of the keyboard. John was lucky that his typing skills were the best in his old school, or he would be left in the dust by now.

He typed matrixes of random letters, strings of numbers, and utter nonsense. His boss told him they were codes for the company. Very important. What he typed made no sense to him, but maybe it was for a purpose. Maybe even a good one.

As if.

It took three hours. When the board stopped flashing, he was done with his work.

He leaned back into his chair and sighed. Why couldn't they spare the expense to buy comfortable chairs for their employees? Maybe then, not so many people would be throwing themselves out of the top floor windows. The feel of broken springs against his back made him want to go home. Work hours were just about over. He sat up and fumbled for his cell phone, digging through his jeans pocket while he shut off the computer. John threw himself back in the uncomfortable chair, holding the phone to his ear. He pinched his nose and exhaled. He was tired. It was strange, how much he'd been getting sleepy. He could take hour naps throughout the day and sleep all seven hours at night, and still be tired when he left for work. It didn't make any sense. He would have to go visit the doctor soon.

The person on the other line picked up, shouting greetings into his ear. "John? What is it? What do you want? I'm busy! I can't talk to you! I'm at, uh, the library! Listen, hun, I'll call you later, yeah? Bye!" And then she promptly hung up before John could get a word in.

Well, there goes his ride from work. He spent a minute scratching his head, wondering how he'd get home without Nana, then resigned to the fact that he'd have to sleep in the office. Again. That's probably why he was so tired. He sighed and slumped onto his desk. What he would do for his nice, comfy bed right now. He'd do many things, not all of them savory.

As he forced himself up from the plastic desk, he pulled out his keys. Wouldn't want the janitor to disturb him with his loud vacuuming at midnight. He twisted the keys in the lock and plopped back down in the squeaky chair. Laying his head on the table, he sighed for the millionth time.

He needed a new job.

* * *

As he woke up for the second time, John had barely noticed anything amiss. He lifted his face from the desk, the keyboard having left a deep indentation on his face from the long night before. He compelled himself to push away from the desk, still drunk on exhaustion, and back into the deep, soft cushions of his chair. His back had grown stiff from spending the night hunched over the desk, and felt himself relax into it, sighing in relief. That chair did wonders for his back.

After several minutes of settling into the chair, he realized sleep was dawning on him and sat right back up, the back of the chair eager to follow him. He felt his mouth stretch in a yawn, and his arms reached up for the ceiling, rolling out the tension in his shoulders. Setting his arms down in his lap, he gave his office ye old once over. John couldn't place exactly what, but something about it had changed. Something he couldn't put his finger on was different about the place.

"Ah." He exclaimed, reaching forward to probe the desk for his glasses. After hitting and missing a few times, he finally felt the cool metal rims before sliding them onto his face. He saw everything more clearly, more defined. Scanning the room once more, he confirmed nothing was missing. It had only been the glasses. Yes, everything seemed different when it was out of focus.

He grinned, leaning back into his squeaking chair. He loved that chair. It was the most comfortable place he'd ever known, more than any bed, any room could offer him. John slept in his chair almost every night, content with the soft, cushy feeling supporting him as he dozed into a dreamless sleep. He loved that chair. He loved the job that allowed him to sleep in it. He loved his life.

With that, he began to spin. His feet pushed off the ground, around and around, the walls blurring with speed as he kept spinning. He loved that chair, he thought with a childish smile. The way the chair would give the slightest bounce as it went 'round and 'round was something he could never think of giving up. He spun faster, the cool air blowing whirlwinds of kisses across his pale skin, twirling his body, and most of all, giving him a sense of happiness he didn't get anywhere else. Never did he feel so happy when he wasn't in this chair.

Something was wrong.

His foot whipped out, catching the desk's edge and stopping the bubbly feeling of joy at a sudden halt. Where had that thought come from? John turned, peeking slowly over the top of his chair, as if searching for the voice of his own thought. His eyes gazed over the room in question. What was wrong? Why had he thought that?

He plopped back down with the question on his mind, chair bouncing in a way that should have made him smile, but didn't. John hummed, eyebrows knitted in a puzzled expression, as he went over what could possibly be considered wrong in his life.

It was that moment when the computer screen flashed, catching the boy's attention. The familiar green light filled the screen, the keyboard lighting up with the same dull glow. John's eyes flitted to his watch.

"Dang it!" he exclaimed, recognizing the time. It was morning. Time to work.

He shot forward, wheels sliding across the carpet in his flight to the desk. He hadn't realized he'd slept through the entire night. His fingers shot out to begin his daily text, when he realized—

He was not the morning shift. Fingers hovering above the glowing keys, it came to him how strange this was. If he was here, sitting at this desk, occupying this room, then where was the morning shift? John turned around yet again, staring at the entrance of the darkened office room. Light filtered in through the smallest cracks of the door, resting on the mish mosh carpeting.

Were they outside? Yes, possibly. He shook his head, face scrunching up in confusion as he took his hands off the keyboard and rested them in his lap. That couldn't be, because if they were here, why weren't they doing their job? No, wait, they could possibly be giving him some rest, he reasoned. Then again, they would have heard the racket he had just made, spinning in his chair like an overjoyed child.

John shook his head again. How silly he was being! These long nights at the office were getting to him. All he needed to do was stand up and walk out of the door, and thank the kind person for letting him finish his sleep.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, exchanging a silent goodbye with his comfy chair and making his way to the door.

But just after he had shuffled over to the door, after he had gripped the doorknob with full intent to open the aforementioned door, the computer lit up again, this time, brighter. John averted his eyes to the screen, which was blinking to catch his attention. His curled fingers fell from the knob. His shoes padded softly across the floor, going back to his desk. He leaned over the computer screen with interest. Never once in his job had he seen it act like this.

He raised an eyebrow at the thing, curiosity splayed out on his face.

Then, his blue eyes widened. For the first time, the computer screen displayed a discernable word, something he could read, something he could make meaning of.

In bright, green, flashing letters, it talked to him.

And it said hi.

* * *

_A/N: I know you noticed it. I _KNOW _YOU NOTICED IT._


	2. One

John shuffled closer to the glowing computer, mouth hung open with wonder. The thing had never typed by itself before. He had never thought it would be able to. But there was the message, right in front of him. It said hi. He reached out to touch the screen, a bit hesitant, but curled his fingers back when another sentence came in.

_I can set you free._

John took a hasty step back, fueled by surprise. Anything more than that would have sent him to the ratty floor. He was stunned, to say the least. Questions ran through his head, thousands of contenders in his brain marathon.

Who was talking to him? What did they mean? Was it the company? Was this a test?

He pushed up his glasses, still wide eyed. It didn't matter all too much, he decided. He almost never got to talk to anyone lately, especially something as interesting as this computer. The thought was a little saddening.

"Wow." He said, and cleared his throat nervously. The smirk that upturned the corner of his lips wasn't able to leave him, even if he forced it. He ran a hand over his mouth, but it still remained.

Those words before him made his breath catch and his heart race in anticipation. He sat down carefully in his chair and kept his hand over his lips as he debated his next decision. He could pick up the phone and call this in as an error in the system. Or…

He looked up at the screen, its words inviting.

_I can set you free._

From what? He was curious to know. Reaching over for the keys, he made his decision. He would reply to whomever or whatever was enticing him so thoroughly. He said back: _Hello._

He waited. John waited for whole minutes. The lack of response was keeping him on the edge of suspense; a little curious, a little dangerous. John would have killed for an answer, and quickly. He wanted to know who could set him free. He wanted to know what he needed to be set free from.

All his life, he wanted answers. The problem was, he never had any questions.

Until now.

He typed in something else, wondering if another response would prompt it into answering him faster: _What can you set me free from?_

The answer was immediate. John's reaction was infinite.

The screen blacked out. The desk lamp shut off. The lights outside went dark. A power out. John could have screamed in fury.

"No!" he shouted angrily, slamming his hands on the desk. He jabbed his finger into the power button over and over. It wouldn't turn back on. He slapped the monitor, the computer, the keyboard. Anything. He didn't want this to be taken away from him. It couldn't be. He'd finally found it! Couldn't the higher powers see that he was pining away for the mystery this morning gave him? Curse them!

He smacked the computer one last time, drawing his hand back with a hiss when he realized his red hand stung. His hand hurt from all that hitting. He cursed under his breath.

It had to be this very moment when the universe supplies him with a power out.

John sunk into his chair. It was useless. The company had an emergency generator, but it took about an hour for the smartest person here to find him and get it working. He sighed.

And he decided it would be better to just rule the entire incident out as a virus that wormed into the program and decided to steal his hopes away by simply saying hello.

* * *

It just wasn't his day. His door was locked, and he couldn't seem to find his keys, even after rummaging through every cabinet in his desk. His phone wasn't working; it had died a long time ago, probably while he was still sleeping. And to top it all off, the power was still off, and no one answered his shouts for help.

It was the worst day ever. He almost couldn't believe it.

Pressing his ear against the door, he couldn't hear any movement in the office beyond. None of the usual faxing, telephone rings, and clacking keyboards could be heard on the other side. Perhaps everyone had gone home when they saw that the generator couldn't be booted up. No one in the stupid company had the brains to think of calling a mechanic. Or the janitor to unlock his door.

But in this dark, where he had to grope around to even find his own chair, there would be no chance of ever finding his lost keys. He regretted getting a promotion and having an office to himself. At least when he was the copy machine boy, he could exit the building with no problem.

If there's a fire, he'd be screwed. He tried not to dwell on that too much.

John passed the time by with sitting in his chair and taking small naps. It couldn't hurt him much, and he had nothing else to do except stare into the darkness.

* * *

After a while, he began to whirl around in his chair. The feel of the wind in his hair and whipping clothes was enough to remember was he was doing here. He was trapped and bored, with nothing better to do except spin around like a child discovering the joys of swivel chairs. He stopped. The thought was more than depressing.

He was starting to get become hungry. He used to have a mini fridge in his room, but one of his superiors took it away, saying that his office was not his dorm room, and that all eating was to be done outside of the work place. What a prick. In the solidarity of his room, his thoughts were beginning to destroy him. At least he was thinking, he assured himself. At least he could think.

It turns out thinking isn't the best thing for a person in captivity. He was right that thoughts were bound to wreck him. He wondered if he could take off his shoe and eat it. He would have to boil it. But for that, he would need a pot and water and a fire to heat it up. The frustration of not having what he needed made him shove everything off the side of his desk in anger, roughly sitting back down in his bouncy chair. The bounce wasn't doing much to calm him down now.

He shoved his face into his hands, sliding down into his lap. And he started to cry irritated tears.

He wanted to go home. It was understandable. It might seem like he was overreacting, but how long could any person stay trapped in a closet for twenty hours? People like him would go practically insane from stress. No light, no food, no noise except for the sound of him breathing. How long would you last?

John gave up, leaning back in his chair. He let the hot tears stream down to his ears. The feeling was uncomfortable, but he let himself be uncomfortable and feel like the only uncomfortable person in the universe. Because here, alone in the dark void, it felt like he was floating through time and space, like he was the only person who had ever existed. The only one with meaning.

And in that moment, he wouldn't deny it.

It felt good.

* * *

When he woke up, he was still tired. His eyes felt like they had been glued shut, refusing to open right away. He rubbed his face. It was sticky from dried tears. He had a weird dream. It was weird. He was trapped in here. The only person in the universe.

Inhaling tiredly, he sat up, the back of his chair following him. The lamp was on, stinging his eyes. He rubbed them again, glasses falling off. When he put them back on, he was greeted with the sight of his usual orders flashing on the computer screen. Lazily, he scooted himself forward to get working for the day. He didn't want to get working that much—he was still in his pajamas, a thunderbolt t-shirt and red sweat pants. How long had he been working?—but orders were orders and someone had to be the waiter. His eyes ran across the text sluggishly.

Then they became vaguely interested.

Then they widened.

And widened more.

What was this?

The computer was talking to him. This wasn't an order. It was a story. And it was about him.

_This is the story of a man named John, _it said.

_John worked for a company in a big building, where he was employee number 427._

_Employee number 427's job was simple. He sat at his desk in room 427__and he pushed buttons on a keyboard._

_Orders came to him through a flashing keyboard on his desk,__telling him what buttons to push, how long to push them, and in what order._

_This is what employee 427 did everyday of every month of every year._

_And although others might consider it soul rending, John relished every moment that the orders came in._

_As though he had been made exactly for this job. And John was happy._

_And then one day something very peculiar happened._

_Something that would forever change John._

_Something he would never quite forget._

_He had been at his desk for nearly an hour,__when he realized that not one single order had arrived on the monitor for him to follow__. __No one had showed up to give him instructions, call a meeting, or even say hi._

_Never in all these years, the company had this happened._

_This...complete isolation._

_Something was very clearly wrong - shocked, frozen solid,__John found himself unable to move for the longest time._

John was terrified. Who had written this? It very perfectly described the dream he just had, mingled with the everyday life he lived and the thoughts he thought. It was creepy. Disturbing. Perturbing. Every synonym of the word.

He found his eyes scanning and rescanning the message on the screen. He couldn't find any answers. It was all about him. Only he was able to know these things. How…how…?

He found himself frozen by those words. He couldn't move, he couldn't even breathe. It was like he was flash frozen in his chair. Unable to do anything.

The boy's face twisted into a grimace. No, it couldn't be. John shot up, his chair clattering against the wall. He was really scared now. He had just done exactly what the computer had said he would do. How? He stumbled back, away from the computer, staggering back into the door. His shaky hand closed around the door knob and flung it open. It slammed behind him as he stumbled out of his office.

He needed help. He needed people.

He cried out as he almost tripped over his own feet, catching himself just before he hit the ground. He ran, shoes pounding against cheap carpet. He was just rounding the corner of the hall when he heard the voice.

"But as he came to his wits and regained his senses, he got out from his desk, and walked out into the hallway." An old, British sounding voice said.

John practically skidded to a stop. He swerved to look behind him, met by the sight of blank walls, dirty carpet, and rows and rows of doors. There was no one. He was going crazy. "Who's there?" he called anyway, voice meek and shaky. Silence answered him. John looked up, around, and in every corner, but couldn't find anyone. "Who's there!" he spat, a little angrier.

"Damn it!" he cursed and continued to run.

He now knew someone was watching. Watching him and calculating his every move. The thought made his heart pump lead, activating his instinct. There was a threat. He needed to run! Pure gut drove him down each twisting hall, leading him to the staff lounge. He was bound to find people there. There wasn't a single day where there wasn't a lazy fucker using the room to slack off on work.

The voice decided to taunt him again. "John decided to go to the staff lounge, to check on his co-workers. He never functioned well by himself, and constantly needed support and guidance from others. So the thought of total solitude was terrifying to him."

"Shut up!" He shouted, arms pumping, feet flying across the stretch. Finally, the door was in sight, blissfully labeled 'staff lounge'. He could have died right there and then. His hand reached out like it was his last chance and he flung open the door in excitement. "Someone! Anybody! Hey!" he shouted desperately, blue eyes flying over the room with high hopes.

Empty chairs and couches looked back at him. No one was in here either. His optimism quickly transformed into panic. His eyes flitted across every object inside. Vending machine, bowl of mints, couch, magazine, but where are the people? There was everything but people in the room. It might as well have been a god damned _in_-convenience store. With a look of defeat etched on his face, John's hand trailed along the threshold as he slumped to the ground.

No one.

John's heart threatened to burst on the spot.

What now?

* * *

A/N: I forgot to add that this fic is based on a video game called the Stanley Parable. It's awesome. Check it out, it's fifteen bucks on the Stanley Parable website. Gamers, this thing will change your life if you're clever enough to get it.

Anyways, John realizes he's alone. Plot movement, yay!

I will try to update every week, if the hell called high school will allow me. Also, I've never read Homestuck. Ever. So, um, possible out of characterness? Maybe?

Until next time! *waves*


	3. Chapel

"Ah, yes. Truly a room worth admiring." The voice said.

John jumped to his feet, heart pounding, eyes flitting across the room to find the invisible source of the voice. "Who is that? Who are you!" he shouted at the ceiling. He wasn't sure if it was coming from the speakers.

The voice didn't answer him, instead just resuming its pointless monologue with a booming voice. "It had truly been worth the detour after all, just to spend a few moments here in this immaculate, beautifully structured room." It seemed like with every syllable the man spoke, a chisel was hammered deeper into John's chest. His fear was escalating, but most prominent in his conscience was anger.

"Answer me, god damn it! Who are you? Where is everybody? What did you do?"

"John simply stood there, drinking it all in."

"Hey!" John climbed furiously onto a table and threw the glass bowl of mints at the ceiling. Shards of blue glass and peppermint rained down, embedding themselves in the ratty carpet and scattering across tables. "What the fuck did you do, huh? What the fuck did you do!"

Silence. This filled him with contempt for whoever was playing mind games on him.

"What do you want from me? Where is everybody? Where did they go?" He shouted at the ceiling, battered from his previous assault.

He panted, throat scratched from all the yelling. "What do you want from me? Answer me!"

Again, no one answered.

He slowly lowered himself down, slumping on the tabletop, hot tears threatening to spill over the edge.

John felt utterly alone.

* * *

John had tried to use the bathroom to wash his face. Maybe if he had washed away the last traces of sleep, he would find that the mysterious disappearance the entire company, the voice in his head and the inching threat of paranoia weren't really gnawing on his conscience.

He was just daydreaming. It was normal. He had an avid imagination. It was okay, it was all okay.

Everyone is here, probably eyeing him like a creep for running around wildly. Screaming to himself. In his pajamas. But their inevitable eye of scorn for this crazy college student will definitely tear him away from this dreamland. He almost longed for people to talk smack about him once more.

He paced through the staff lounge, still on edge, dreading the saturating timbre of the man's voice. He kept pulling at his sweats, which were dangling from his waist. John reached for the employee restroom door handle. He pulled. It was locked. A breath he didn't know he'd been holding slipped from his lips.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself.

John slapped his sides in frustration. His anger was slowly building up again, only this time, the room was bigger, with more things to destroy.

He ended up passing out on the stiff excuse of a couch. Nothing he did helped at all. He slid his cool hands down his face, longing for the refreshing feeling of cold water on his face. There was a water fountain in the hall, but he had too much pride to be washing himself like a homeless person in Grand Central Park. It was demeaning. He might have been a college student, but he had a sense of dignity, at least.

He rested for a long time. It was a while before he climbed off the couch and began wandering again. He hadn't slept, being too restless and full of questions to fall back into dreamless sleep. The carpeting was irritatingly rough underneath his socked feet. He made his way to the window, an idea having come to him during his rest on the couch.

His hand lied on the window sill, eyes squinting past the thin layer of frost settling there. He rubbed the pane with his fist, scrubbing away the fogginess. The street was empty. No cars, no people. None of the normal rush hour sights greeted his weary eyes.

John's arms wobbled as he hefted the window open. Flakes of rust scattered from the pane as it skidded to the top of the frame. None one had opened this window in years, lord knows why.

Now that it was open, he wondered if he could climb down and wander the streets for help. Surely there must be someone out there that could help him.

It took a moment for John to realize he was trembling. His entire frame shook, eyes widening at the realization. His hands whipped to his sides and he rubbed himself fiercely to try and stop it.

Eerie. The entire situation was spooking him. He had to know what was going on.

Come on. No one in the building? No one on the streets? Voices in his head? He might as well be going insane.

He tried to convince himself this, hands over his eyes to keep himself from tearing up. His eyes stung. He couldn't be so weak to cry again. He was starting to feel pathetic.

He shivered one last time, his shaking arms disconnecting themselves and reluctantly returning to his sides.

John couldn't stay in the empty staff room forever. He needed to move and find answers. The person messing with him could very well be in the next room, laughing their stupid head off at this stupid, cruel prank that he's freaking out over. He backed away from the window, closing it. He couldn't bear to look at the empty street for any longer.

He poked his head out into the hall, scanning the stretch right and left. It was an old habit to check for unkind jocks in high school, frat boys in college, and red-faced bosses at work. It was a habit developed from fear, and it suited him well now more than it ever did before.

Stepping carefully, as if a wrong foot fall might trigger a land mine, he made his way down the hall. He looked in every department, checking every cubicle for signs of life. In the small spaces, he found lots of things. Teddy bears, food wrappers from lunch, unfinished work, scattered papers on the floor, pictures of friends, relatives, boyfriends, girlfriends, little knick knacks that served no purpose, a half eaten candy bar, book marks with no books, empty cans of soda. All of these things littered cubicles across the office. If John wasn't in such a stressful situation, he would have been irked to see that the other employees were allowed to have everything he wasn't. He would have liked to have a nice picture of Nana on his desk, and a cooler of candy bars.

John held onto the chocolate bar and numbly chewed on it during his circle around the office. The taste never registered. He was merely defying the condescending power of his boss and the leering eyes of that unseen force. He cringed at the thought of the voice watching him, narrating his every move.

A deep, burrowing sensation wormed its way into his chest. No, he couldn't wrap himself up in fear again. It wouldn't help his search at all. He shook off the feeling and exited the department into the long hall.

The walk to his boss' office was long and quiet, two things that John was not very good at coping with. It didn't matter what—car rides, lectures, movies—if it was those two things, he ended up not being able to sit through it. He just stood up and left. But he couldn't leave now.

Well, he could if he wanted to. There was an exit door on almost every corner he turned, and behind it, a staircase that would lead to every level and eventually to the street. He had tried one of the doors. It was unlocked. As he turned another corner in the winding maze he called a workplace, there was a fire escape presenting itself from beyond the window. The rusted metal of a handrail peeked from the edge of the frame, beckoning. But he removed his eyes from the sight and continued walking.

He only had one ambition on his mind. It was to reach the boss' office and see if there was anything there. If not, he would leave. No harm done. It was only one last place to check.

He reached the double doors, two grand fixtures for a company building. Smooth wood garnished with sleek metal plates for door handles. The feel of smooth skin on cold metal was electrifying, so unlike the sensation of his keyboard, always damp from his skin. He opened the door. It opened silently. For some reason, he had been hoping for the familiar squeak from the movies.

"Entering his manager's office, John was once again stunned to discover not an indication of human life." The voice announced, loud and clear. John would have lashed out at it if he wasn't so completely awed by the sight before him. Not a sound escaped his open mouth.

The room was grand. A breath escaped him. It was a library. Rows of wooden perfection lined the walls, cradling countless books inside of them. John had no hope of even trying to guess. Everywhere he looked, there were books. Leather bound, paper back, hardcover, mint condition, ancient, the conditions of the books varied like faces in a crowd. There was no question of John's love for books. The sight took his breath away.

He gingerly stepped inside, like he was trespassing on sacred ground, shoving the candy wrapper in his pocket so his slack fingers wouldn't make the mistake of dropping on the ground. He looked up, blue eyes savoring the beautiful view before him. Turning, he looked at the ceiling. It was so high above him, he almost expected a mural.

He had done a semester abroad in Italy his junior year. Trekking in the library had the unwavering feel of the Sistine Chapel. The way he gazed up at the ceiling felt like he was looking up at the stars. Mankind's greatest depiction of human desire was spread out for his eyes to feast—the way Adam strained to touch God, so close, yet so far away. The grandness of the room somehow triggered the vivid memory. It was one of the best trips of his life. He had no idea the company hid away a room like this. He had always seen the doors, but had no idea such a room was stored away behind it.

The voice spoke up again. "It was at this point that he began to feel dizzy and a little sick."

John snapped out of his daydream and realized how fast his head was spinning. His eyes lolled and he stumbled back, holding his head with a shaky hand. The other whipped out to catch himself on the desk behind him. The room spun. Damn, he really was dizzy. "Shut up. Can't you even let me have a good moment?"

"He even thought he might pass out." It claimed.

He was starting to get irritated, and even fainter. "No, I didn't." he muttered weakly.

John pushed himself from the desk and tried to regain his footing, no matter how weak it might have been. He took wobbly steps toward the door, and found he needed something to balance himself. The room was spinning wildly. He stumbled forward, barely catching himself. He barely noticed that his pants were slung low. His hand reached out in an instinctive attempt to avoid falling, catching air. His other hand shot out, smacking a bump as the whirling floor sped up to hit him in the face.

Blackness.

* * *

_A/N: What happens next?_


	4. Oblivious

They watched him in the darkened room. Every move he made, they saw. They watched him with a chagrin that twirled a cold, sharp knife in their guts. Cold and painful. And it was very cold.

"Damn it, he's just playing around with the stupid bastard." The boy growled, white air escaping the chapped rims of his lips.

She shivered everywhere, rubbing her bare arms as she shook her head in sorrow. "I don't understand. He keeps changing things. That wasn't there when Dirk—"

"Don't talk about Dirk." He spat, face paling. Their heads swung to the only door in the room, locked and frosty. They were afraid _he_ would overhear and become angry, like the last time. The last time was hell. He had never seen ice melt so fast.

They reluctantly turned back to the television with mixed emotions. Irritation blended into the anger of no escape, making way to melancholy, and finally, a bleak hope.

It was certainly a bitter cocktail neither of them wished to drink.

* * *

He normally made the mistake of thinking he had woken up at his desk. He slept at the office so often that he almost forgot the soft, comfortable feeling of lying down in bed. The manager made him stay after hours in the beginning, but John was one prone to developing habits. He began to stay longer even though the manager no longer told him to.

So when he woke up with his face pressed against the floor, he thought the impressions in his cheek were the bumpy keys on the keyboard pressing into his face.

But when he tried to lean back into his chair, he realized there was no chair. Immediately, John shot up to his feet, head whipping around in confusion.

"What—where am I?" he asked no one. His head raced for an answer, going through files of information to come up with nothing. He processed the sight of books in every corner. Why was he in a library? When did he go to the library?

He forced himself to calm down, cradling his head with two hands and corralling his thoughts together. Nana. He recalled something about Nana. Okay, good, that's a good start. He slowly lowered himself on the floor, crisscrossing his legs and adopting a childish thinking pose.

Backtracking his memories to the night before, John thought about what could have brought him here. It was certainly difficult—he couldn't remember a thing.

Nana was nowhere in sight. But there's a feeling that she was somehow involved in this. He narrowed one eye. Was there…a party? Yes! His mouth scrunched up. There was a party. He can almost hear the blaring music pounding in his head. His head falls into his hands. No, his head really is pounding. Does he have a hangover? Nana always drags him to the craziest parties.

He slides his face out of his hands and looks up. He needs to go home. It's early in the morning, something he discovers as he absent-mindedly gazes at his watch.

It's early. He should really be at work right now.

Work…

"Work!" he exclaims, jumping to a stand. "Darn, I'm late for work!" He pulls at his pajamas, cursing the powers for Nana's late night outings as he staggers to the nearest door.

A metal door stood out of place from its exquisite surroundings. The ugly faded color popped from the rich reds and browns around it. He walked up to it, pulling the handle. Locked.

"Crap. How do I get out of here?" he jiggled the door knob repeatedly before giving up and scanning the room for a different door. There, on the far end, was another one. That one was as beautiful as the rest of the room. He began to make his way toward it before something strange interrupted him.

Someone spoke to him. "Suddenly, he noticed a keypad next to the filing cabinet of his bosses' office."

John turned to check the corner of the room, and low and behold, there was a filing cabinet tucked away in the recesses of the room. His feet padded on the soft carpet, then he was right before the metal case.

And right next to the cabinet was a little metal keypad, not unlike the one for the security alarm in his parents' home. "Would you look at that?" He murmured, toying with the steely buttons. He looked up and asked, "What's this for?"

"John had never seen this panel before, and had no idea what combination of numbers would produce any result." He boomed from the farthest corners of the massive library. He sounded vaguely happy, a certain bounce in his voice betraying the fact he was glad to be answering John's question. "In fact, only John's boss knew this, since the panel withheld access to the bosses' greatest darkest secret."

"Darkest secret? What's his darkest secret?" His finger hovered uncertainly over the dim glow of the button.

The only answer to his query was: "The number of his freshman dorm number in college. 1957."

"1957," John whispered, tapping the entry into the uncomplaining keypad.

Without preamble, the door slid open with a strange hiss of air. That was all. John had barely noticed, only catching a glimpse of the movement from the corner of his eye. He leaned over and peeped into the gaping hole, seeing only darkness. He wondered whether he should venture into such a questionable place. The narrator wouldn't possibly show it to him if it was dangerous, would he? He looked up into the beyond for an answer.

"Stanley ventured forth into the newly opened passageway."

John lifted himself to his feet, pulling up his saggy pajama bottoms once more. Then, he wondered without a trace of doubt into the doorway and beyond. If the voice told him he was going to do it, then he would. There wasn't any other way to go.

So he went. He couldn't have known. The voice never in a million years would have told him of the dangers that lay ahead. And John would have never questioned it.

The voice wouldn't have reprogrammed the boy for nothing.


End file.
